Daily entries from the 17th century London diary
Published in 1640.
The Queene of Arragon:
William Habington, 1605-1654. Printed by Tho. Cotes, for William Cooke, and are to be sold at his shop at Furnivals Inne gate in Holburne, 1640 - 66 pages
William Habington was born in 1605, of a Roman Catholic family, in Worcestershire, and educated at Paris and St. Omer's. His literary accomplishments, and particularly his historical knowledge, recommended him to the favour of Charles I. at whose command he composed his " History of Edward "IV." fol. 1640, in which, Wood says, his father,Thomas Habington, had a considerable hand. He also wrote "Observations upon History," 8vo. 1641; a tragi-comedy called "The Queene of Arragon," fol. 1640; and a small volume of love-poems under the title of " Castara;" (2d. ed. 1635 ; 3d ed. corrected and augmented, 1640), remarkable for their unaffected tenderness and moral merit. These were addressed to Lucia, daughter of Lord Powis, whom he afterwards married. He died in 1654. http://goo.gl/l1d4J
[From "The Queene of Arragon."]
Fine young folly, though you were That fair beauty I did swear,
Yet you ne'er could reach my heart; For we courtiers learn at school Only with your sex to fool; You're not worth the serious part.
When I sigh and kiss your hand, Cross my arms, and wondering stand,
Holding parley with your eye; Then dilate on my desires, Swear the sun ne'er shot such fires;All is but a handsome He.
When I eye your curl or lace, Gentle soul, you think your face
Straight some murder doth commit; And your virtue doth begin To grow scrupulous of my sin ; When I talk to shew my wit
Therefore, Madam, wear no cloud, Nor to check my love grow proud,
For, in sooth, I much do doubt 'Tis the powder in your hair, Not your breath, perfumes the air; And your clothes that set you out.
Yet though truth has this confess'd, And I vow, I love in jest;
When I next begin to court, And protest an amorous flame, You'll swear I in earnest am: Bedlam! this is pretty sport.
[From the same.]
Not the Phoenix in his death,Nor those banks where violets grow,And Arabian winds still blow, Yield a perfume like her breath:
But, oh! marriage makes the spell,And 'tis poison if I smell.
The twin beauties of the skies, (When the half-sunk sailors haste To rend sail and cut their mast) Shine not welcome as her eyes:
But those beams, than storms more black, If they point at me, I wrack.
Then for fear of such a fire,Which kills worse than the long night Which benumbs the Muscovite, I must from my life retire.
But, oh no! for if her eye Warm me not, I freeze and die.
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